


Mother of Dragons: Freya Silver-Hawk

by MikaLero



Series: For All Things, an Appointed Time... [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Aldmeri Dominion, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Another time or place they would have had a better life, Cyrodiil, Doomed Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Secrets, Fluff and Smut, Imperial City, Implied History of Mildly Dubious Consent, Implied Relationships, Inheritance, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Secret Relationship, Star-crossed, Stockholm Syndrome, Thalmor, The Great War, Torture, military occupation, succession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaLero/pseuds/MikaLero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This series will start in the middle, and go backwards and forwards as needed.  We start with a glimpse into the life of Freya Silver-Hawk, prisoner of the Thalmor during the Great War with the Aldmeri Dominion.  A scion of the Champion of Cyrodiil, Lysa Silver-Hawk and Martin Septim, she's destined to become the mother of the Last Dragonborn of prophecy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Time to Fear...

**Author's Note:**

> The Elder Scrolls and all  
> characters, and content within  
> are copyrighted to Bethesda.
> 
> Freya is one of my OCs.
> 
> Warnings: Some depiction of torture.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya Silver-Hawk of Skyrim was a Praefect in the 8th Imperial Legion when the Imperial City fell to the Dominion. One of only a scant handful to survive the battle and waves of executions that followed, she has been a prisoner of war for the last year. Now, a spark of hope that eternal captivity may not be her fate after all... But things are never quite so simple as that.

_3rd of Second Seed (May), 4E 175_

 It was an easy thing, and happened often - losing track of time.  Forced wakefulness from racked limbs, or burned and cut flesh would eventually slip into restless and dreamless sleep, and then back again until it was impossible to know for sure whether it was even day or night anymore.  Why had they thrown her back down here again after all this time?  The Nord woman moaned and shifted against the cold wall, heavy iron shackles biting into her wrists and swollen, bruised ankles. Her black hair stuck to her face, the humidity of the season having seeped into the dungeons and layered everything slick with moisture.

It was oppressively quiet in the Skingrad Prison where she was still being held - was she the last one left now? No way to tell really.  It had been two days, maybe even three, since a goodly portion of the garrison had been sent off towards the Imperial City, and the first hurriedly whispered rumors passing from guard to guard had reached her ears. Soft, tired blue eyes closed as her lips offered up a silent prayer.  The Emperor was leading an assault to recapture the Capitol? Praise the Nine if it were true!

Her brow furrowed.  Had _he_ gone with the rest to aid the Dominion forces?  Was he gone, and that was why?  How long _had_ it been? Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard the clanking footsteps of guards coming closer to her door. She barely had time to take in the face of the Robe - the Interrogator that had come for her.  His was an unfamiliar face, and it was full of seething distaste, even hate.  It struck fear in her heart. Their usual cold indifference defined most of them. Yet now...

_I’m going to die tonight..._

A brace of armored hands yanked from her cell with unusual hurry and an urgency bordering on panic.  Strapped on the rack, the Interrogator was frenzied and relentless, barely giving her any chance to answer his questions before barking orders to the pair of footsloggers - ever brilliant and shining in their golden armor.

"Tighter! _Tighter_!"

The wheels and rope creaked and groaned as her arms and legs were pulled taut. She squealed and cried. She didn't know! Legions coming down from the Highlands? Decianus was in Hammerfell! She'd been a captive of the Aldmeri Dominion since the fall of the Imperial City, how was she supposed to know anything about where Jonna's Nord Legions were?

Next came the lightning sparks. Her own screams left her ears ringing as the convulsions induced by the Thalmor's magic wrenched her left shoulder out of joint with a sickening wet pop, ripping and reducing the ligaments to threadbare strings.   

"The sewer tunnels, you wretched cow!" the strange, older Mer bellowed. "You fought with the Eighth Legion, you know the routes through them,"  Pausing, he looked over to the soldier arming the wheel. With a flick of his wrist he signaled them to take her down, as he walked over to a table often referred to jokingly by Mer soldiers as a Butcher's Stall. "You are going to tell me..." he began, his speech punctuated by the swipes of his cutting instrument against leather. "How the southern sewers are laid, and where they exit the city."

A taller, more lithe figure, dressed in the robes of an officer of the Thalmor Justiciars approached him from behind. Droplets of rain still clung to the edges of his cowl, and wet his outer robes.  He’d ridden through a storm it seemed. The angular, stately features of his face were completely blank and emotionless - save for a tiny twitch in his brow and a slight frown as the dark haired Nord woman cried and gurgled, shaking uncontrollably as the armored Dominion soldiers took her down from the rack, and tossed her onto the hard slab and began to chain her hands and feet.  Her reply, if it could be called that, incomprehensible.

"Might I have a word, Interrogator Felindral?" he whispered softly, not asking before stepping forward to take hold of the woman’s more badly injured arm. A series of smoothed, practiced movements very quickly and loudly popped the offending joint back in place.  His face flinched and his frown became more pronounced as his actions elicited an ear-piercing shriek of pain from the woman laid out in front of him. He released her arm and a soft magical glow began to emanate from his palms.

His eyes met hers, and for a brief moment her pale blue eyes seemed almost...relieved.  He laid one hand gingerly on her shoulder with a healing spell. It was not his most proficient school of magic, but his skills were sufficient in his current station. His eyes were a rich emerald green - they bored into her's as he laid his other hand across her forehead,  murmuring a strong Calming spell.  Her eyelids began to droop, the cool dampness of his wet gloves soothing to her flushed skin.

The Interrogator he had called Felindral was more than irritated.  "I demand to know the meaning of this interruption!"  The Justiciar's eyes snapped away from his charge and narrowed. "You failed to notify me before beginning to question _my_ assigned asset, _Interrogator,_ " he said, with a low, flat tone - the emphasis meant to remind the other who held rank.

Felindral arched a brow and twitched the corners of his mouth into a frown. “You weren’t exactly readily available, Justiciar,” he snipped in return. Still, he stepped away from the table, knife still in hand, and moved to a further corner of the room to wait. Another handful of minutes and the Justiciar finished with their captive, having induced a dreamless, comatose sleep. A lazy flick of the wrist as he approached his colleague dismissed the guards.

A silent, pointed stare asked the obvious questions.

"If those lowbrowed Nord dogs cross the river, Lord Naarifin will be surrounded. You're aware of our current reinforcement efforts..."

The Justiciar nodded dismissively, "Get to the point."

The other mer sneered. "And _Commander_ Aelthor ordered me to investigate any and all additional means of getting into... or out of the City."

The younger male grimaced. Crossing his arms tightly, he tapped his fingers anxiously on his forearms. Bullying down an older agent of lower rank was one thing, the commander of the Skingrad garrison was another matter entirely.  Still, he was quite put out that the most brutish torturer in their ranks had chosen to lay hands on what was his.

"Then I will question her," he said after a moment. He raised a quick hand to cut off Felindral’s immediate protests.  “Who exactly is it you believe lies over there on that table?” he asked with a deft nod of his head over in the unconscious woman’s direction.

A huff and thick condescension saturated his reply.  “Some Nord bitch, like every other mangy human dog we have here. Freya’s her name, isn’t it? ”

The Justiciar pulled a bound dossier from the outer fold of his robes and thrust it roughly in the other mer’s face. He did not wait for any response before turning away and removing his gloves.  As he approached the still unconscious figure on the table, he began rolling up his sleeves a bit, glancing up for a moment to see Felindral’s face.  It was a combination of disbelief and reluctant anxiety.

“Descended...from _Lysa Silver-Hawk_? ‘Champion of Cyrodiil’ and all that Imperialist blather?” he said in a more strained voice than he intended.  After another moment of thought, he looked up and blinked with a slight gulp. “That wasn’t the one there was gossip about having married the Septim bastard?”

The tall mer smirked slightly with a smug sort of satisfaction at the discomfort in Felindral’s voice.  His expression was hidden from view of course, as his head was bent, eyes focused on her face.  “Not gossip.” he said without looking up. “Supporting documents were recently found in what was shipped back to Alinor after the fall of the White Gold Tower.”

“They were hidden?”

“Hm.” he affirmed with a nod, “It would seem… that forces contending for the succession after the... unfortunately timed demise of Chancellor Ocato wanted such information… repressed.”

His words paused and trailed off as he continued to run the best healing spell he could muster in the rather compressed amount of time the situation required.  It wasn’t much truthfully, and once he woke her, she would still be in a considerable amount of pain. Cradling her head in his hands, he turned her face up towards his and began to draw her out of the stupor he had put her in.  

“Does _she_ know?” he asked the Justiciar, jutting his chin out to gesture to Freya.

A soft chuckle answered him.  “How do you think we knew what to look for?  Freya, my dear… Wake up Freya.” he whispered in her ear.  His voice was soft, almost cooing.  

Felindral frowned, but said nothing as he observed with his arms crossed.  Cutting, burning, racking… that was torture he understood and appreciated.  These types of manipulative mind-games, however?  Psychological torment and manipulation, particularly along sexual lines was quite effective, he couldn’t dispute that.  Still, even if the actual acts were left to those tree-jumping beasts who called themselves Bosmer, the idea of getting so intimately involved with one of those lesser-made wretches left him feeling dirtied.

A shudder ran through Freya’s body.  Her eyes and her face scrunched in an unpleasant expression, as if she were a resentful child being woken from a nap.  Icey colored eyes fluttered open and blinked once, twice, refocusing.  She opened her mouth and closed it again, seeming to smile.

“Ondo...Ondolemar?”

The word had barely left her mouth before her eyes slammed shut again and she made a strangled cry.  Her body tensed, and tried to thrash against the chains that still held her ankles and other arm.  
  
“Shhh… shhh, my pet, I know it hurts.” Ondolemar said, redirecting her attention to his face. “Look at me Freya.” he said with a more forceful tone.

She looked up, eyes wide with pain and fear...anguish, even. “You left… you were gone… they threw me back down here...” her ragged little voice began to ramble.

Ondolemar’s lips thinned, and his green eyes narrowed. “And here you’ll stay if you don’t do as I say, and _focus_ …Think about the sewers in the Imperial City Freya.  What do you know about them?”

She blinked and looked confused for a moment.  She closed her eyes, muttering and mumbling for a moment, before taking a large, shuddering sigh.  “Blades used them more…Big circles, the Districts, the Palace, they’re all connected. You… You can get anywhere from everywhere.”

Felindral’s eyes rolled, and he clicked his tongue.  As if this was useful.

Ondolemar did not break his gaze away from Freya’s. This was a good start, considering the state the other had reduced her to. Slowly, and softly, he began to stroke her hair, brushing it back away from her face. When she turned her cheek into his palm slightly, even Felindral had to admit that this one appeared  _well_ broken.  Between her blood-curdling screams, all he’d been able to pry from her were curses, damnations, and all manner of foul epithets.

“Good my dear, very good, but how do you get out?  How many ways are there outside the City?” he continued, speaking very evenly and simply.

Another deep breath, hitching with pain on the exhale. “Two.  North and s...Southeast.”

The Justiciar took a moment to glance over to his associate when she closed her eyes briefly.  Felindrel’s attention was quite focused, and he stepped forward a pace or two in order to better hear.

“Tell me about the Southeast, Freya.  Where do I go to get there?”

Freya bit her bottom lip, hesitating willfully for the first time since she’d woken.  Ondolemar frowned and gave her a stern look.  His other palm pressed against her cheek, it began to hum and crackle, ever so slowly charging with a lightning spell.  Her eyes were glassy, but shed no tears. “The Arboretum…” she said finally. “Inside the city, go to the Arboretum. It will empty into the water, south and east of the Arcane University.”

“And have you ever walked this path yourself?”

She shook her head and mouthed a ‘No’.  With reluctance, she looked away from him, and would not meet his eyes.  Letting out a most pitiful moan, her body began to shake more intensely as she started to sob.

Ondolemar’s fingers twitched and he huffed in frustration.  He knew her tells thoroughly, and she was exhibiting them all flagrantly.  Not about to say so out loud however, he straightened up and looked over to the Interrogator.

“Go. Now.  And send Arelya to finish cleaning up this mess you’ve made.” he snarled, gesturing to Freya. Not wasting any time, Felindral nodded curtly and turned on his heels to leave.  


No sooner had the door to the chamber shut than Ondolemar swiped a ring of keys off its peg in the wall and set about unshackling Freya. Tossing them aside, he quickly reached his arms around her shoulders to catch her before she rolled off the table.  Cradling her gently, he nuzzled her hair as her next heaving cry was buried into his chest.

Vivid images and urges of what he wanted to do to Felindral were pounding inside his head _almost_ as hard and uncomfortably as what he knew his superiors would do to him, if anyone returned and chanced upon them in such an embrace.

Freya’s right hand clung to his forearm, while the other sat idly in her lap, the shoulder still too painful to move anything. Her words were nearly incoherent and babbling as she pleaded softly for him to not leave her here.

“Hush my dearest.  Hush now.” he murmured, lifting her chin and pressing a kiss to her lips.   
  
“I’m not going to leave you ever again.”


	2. Hate and Love... Love and Hate...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Self-punishment and castigation would come later. For now, he wanted to see her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elder Scrolls and all  
> characters and content  
> found within are copyrighted  
> to Bethesda.
> 
> Warnings - Possible abuse triggers.

_Early Morning, 4th of Second Seed (May), 4E 175_

The slam of the iron-bound door behind Ondolemar was all but drowned out by another crack of thunder as the heart of the storm continued to roll over the city.  The last handful of hours had been spent in conference with Commander Aelthor in the garrison's headquarters at Rosethorn Hall - pouring over maps, scouting reports, any scrap of intelligence they had at their immediate disposal to try and pinpoint the exit to the sewer tunnels that could lead reinforcements into the city. What no one present could say for certain, was whether or not Lord Naarifin had knowledge of this route, if Auri-El felt the need to humble them all and make an escape from Imperial forces necessary.

The thought of such a setback now…  _now_...after all the blood and sacrifice it took to get this far left a truly foul taste in his mouth. Although truth be told, there was a far more troubling matter that weighed on him at that moment.  After all, while this rally by this laughable excuse for an 'Empire' was thornish and frustrating, the Thalmor had never failed their people.  Not when disgusting human folly had covered the land with daedra and death, they certainly would not do so now.

"Arelya!" he bellowed, stripping off his gloves and beginning to undo the buckles of his Thalmor robes. The first year or two in this Divines-forsaken, _shitpile_ of a country had been uncomfortable, but bearable. Now? Everything about this place, the dull colours, the oppressive weather, the bland slop that passed for food, and the humans... the unending assault of their sights, noises, and stench against his senses often drove him to what felt like the brink of madness.  Many times he ached for home.

As if that was not enough, the powers that be all seemed to conspire and had dropped _her_ in his lap. Surely Auri-El would not have stricken a loyal son as he was with such affliction.  Still, which conspiratorial, fate-altering powers _had_ , he wouldn't guess, though Sanguine had crossed his mind as a suspect - humiliation and debasement were that Oblivion Prince's signature after all.

The petite, mild mannered, but plainly raised and simple Bosmer woman he had summoned hurried down the steps to the foyer. Her hair was streaked with a few slivers of grey one could see whisping out from under her cowl. Deftly and without needing to say a word, she took his gloves and his wet outer robes, draping them over one arm.

Ondolemar's posture was still extremely tense and his voice snappy and irritated as he poured himself a glass of heavy wine. "Where is she?" he asked.  He was aware Arelya knew more than anyone should about the biggest roots of his discontent, having been his servant wherever he went for many years now - and his father’s before him. One blessing was how well she had come to be able to anticipate his needs, often before he was fully aware of them himself.  That, and her _impeccable_ sense of discretion.

"The usual place sir. I laid out a dry set a' your evening clothes in the study."

Turning from her master, she began up the stairs before pausing, and turning back to look down at him. When he turned his eyes up and noticed her gaze, he took a gulp to finish off his cup and promptly poured another. He arched an eyebrow somewhat disdainfully.

“Well?”

Not just a common housekeeper, Arelya was a skilled healer.  Any time not spent tending to the needs of his household, she spent in the military hospital set up for their wounded Aldmeri troops behind the front lines.

She considered her words carefully.  “Wasn’t just her shoulder Felindral twisted a pretty number on. Broke both her ankles ta pieces.  Knees and hips weren't quite so bad, but sha'still going to need a lot of rest. I don’t mean to overstep my bounds sir, but if she isn’t handled real delicate-like for a long while… “ she paused, unsure of how to exactly say it.

“Spit it out Arelya, I’m _tired_.” he hissed.

“Sh'might not walk right again sir.” she said hurriedly, pinning her eyes to the ground to avoid seeing whatever reaction her master would have. “...if she gets treated any sort of the same rough way again soon.”

The complete absence of any sound from him was more frightening than if he had yelled or thrown something.  His silence, unlike his rage, was unpredictable. Quickly she ducked her head in a bow. "Sir." And with that was off in a flash with the wet robes.

  
\----

Ondolemar sighed with a bit of relief as he stripped off the rest of his tight, damp clothing.  The fire in the study cast a warm glow over the room. Walking past the table where his night clothes were laid out, he poured himself another cup of wine - letting the radiating heat from the fireplace warm his backside.

It was always so oppressively _cold_  in this country. The fact that there were inhabited lands even further north - some parts of it eternally buried in drifts of snow and ice - almost disturbed him.  It had always sounded dreadful, and Ondolemar could only be grateful that he wasn’t likely to displease anyone enough to end up stationed in that sort of hell hole.

But Freya’s eyes would glitter and shine with a spark of energy he could not recall seeing at any other time, when she would describe her homeland. _She_  could make the untamed, feral woods of Falkreath, the wide and perpetually snow-bound stretches of Eastmarch valleys, or the rocky plains of Whiterun sound almost interesting. Almost.

Downing his third cup of heavy wine, he ran a hand through his short, few inches of hair.  Always one of the more austere of his colleagues, he used to keep the silver, honey streaked mess shorn down to nothing.  He frowned, remembering the afternoon he caught her staring at him as if daydreaming - before wondering aloud how it’d look if he would let it grow, even just a little.  He rationalized his change in grooming habits as his own curiosity and choice.  Hadn’t ever given it thought before - it had simply been what he’d always done.

Huffing in frustration he grabbed only his night robe, shrugging it over his shoulders and tying the belt loosely across his hips.  Everything in his environment was always so constraining, regimented, and tight - he saw no real reason to deny himself at least a brief respite from it all.

After all, what harm would it do?

By now the undiluted drink had eased a good deal of the most wound and tense bits - mental and physical.  Always after he’d remind himself it was a disturbing habit to form in one so superiorly bred, rather than being able to simply will away his own stress.  Self punishment and castigation would come later. For now, he wanted to see her.

  
\-----

The moon had long since climbed too high to shine through the bedroom windows.  What light there was in the room was given off by candles.  Arelya had laid Freya in his bed, clothed with a sleeveless white linen shift, silk lacing holding the front of it together.  Laying on her right side, her back was too him - sides rising and falling slowly, but evenly as she slept.  He sighed as one who could not help himself and let his gaze wander.

Her thick hair laid against her back in a long, simple plait.  The sheer linen draped over her hips and legs, making her skin look as if it were glowing gold in the candlelight.  Sometimes in moments like this one, only so often, Ondolemar found he had forgotten not who he was looking at, but what.

He sat on the edge of the other side of the bed, ghosting his fingertips over her bandaged and slung shoulder.  Despite the combined efforts of himself and his Bosmer servant, there were still ugly bruises, shackle cuts, and whip marks on her skin. Both feet were splinted and bound with strips of cloth from her toes to just beneath the curve of her calves. Even Mer bodies could only handle so many potions, or so much magic at once, regardless of its nature, without becoming sickened or poisoned. There was simply no way to replace time when it came to healing such injuries.

Eventually Ondolemar stretched out on his side next her. Running his fingers over her braided hair, he draped it over to the other side before placing that arm over her waist, and his nose at the base of the back of her neck.  Drawing in a breath, he could smell wisps of magnolia and lavender from what Arelya had used to bathe her. She always smelled so sweet and warm...almost like home.

 That she had been so thoroughly abused and might well have been killed in his absence angered him in a way he couldn’t - or simply did not wish to understand.  Trying to think it was because the Thalmor would have been out a perfect, already stringed marionette to install in the White-Gold Tower after all this unpleasantness was decided felt obscure and petty. This was a more primal, possessive, and distinctly _male_  anger.  He did not understand it, and trying only made it worse - so he just...didn’t. He would focus instead on ways to make Felindral’s death look like an accident.  An extremely painful one.

Freya stirred, turning her head slightly. Ondolemar rested his head on his right hand and moved just enough to let her roll onto her back. She smiled sweetly as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Hello…” she murmured sleepily.  Her heavy lidded, slightly unfocused gaze made it obvious just how heavily dosed she was for pain.

He responded by leaning down and giving her a kiss.  She opened her mouth to his probing and insistent tongue, fingers trembling as they grasped for his sleeve. Abruptly, he batted them away and grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"You _lied_  to me." he whispered, their foreheads lightly touching and his unblinking eyes cold as he waited for her answer.

Freya's brow furrowed and her look was confused. Her lips began to form a soundless 'What?' before understanding came to her. Pursing her lips, she jerked her chin away from his grip and focused on some distant point across the room.

"I did not." she said curtly. It was the truth, but only from a certain point of view. She’d been in the South East tunnel, yes, but only in the City’s side - a by way to the sewers under the Arena where vampires often convened and needed periodic removal. It was a petty omission, but she knew him well enough to know he would not be satisfied without forcing every last secret from her if he thought she had any.  Could he not give her just this one, tiny thing that only in the most bizarre of circumstances be of any consequence?

He wasn't entirely sure if this abrupt mood was her own spirit or false bravado bolstered by the pain killing, but still mind-altering concoction she'd been given. It didn't matter really.

"I don't believe you." he hissed, forcing her to look back at him and placing his hand firmly around her throat. He loomed over her now, one knee wedged between her thighs, emerald daggers boring directly into her eyes.

“Do I need to remind you of the consequences when you lie? _Especially_  if that lie costs any time or lives?"

She trembled under his grip, uncertainty and unabashed fear apparent in her entire expression.  It twisted something painfully in him when she gave him that look.  It happened anytime Ondolemar went away and his eyes, his kisses, his touch, were replaced by the merciless, obedient _soldier_ that the Thalmor - that his father - had conditioned him from birth to be. He didn’t want her to be afraid - not of him, but he held his stony countenance no matter how uncomfortable.  She made him weak enough in his own thoughts, his own will, and in panic, he felt he could not let the last vestiges of his resistance crumble, not now, and no matter the cost.

He would look at her and feel _love!_  He would do things just to see her smile. He would miss and yearn for her touch and the tight warmth of her body around him when he laid with her, whenever his duty kept him away. He would be gnawed and consumed by a painful, paranoid fear at the thought she might be taken from him - a fear made markedly worse with the sudden turn in the tides of the War’s fortunes. He loved her. By Auri-El and all the rest, she had _made him love her_ , and he hated her for it!

“P...please..” she whimpered, her one good hand grasping weakly and in vain against his wrist. “Please, I didn’t…”

Ondolemar’s hand tightened ever so slightly, but the constancy of his grip wavered. The dim light obscured the pained look in his eyes.  They burned, and he forced them closed, unable to maintain his resolve if he had to look into her eyes for a moment longer.

“Ondolemar, please…” she gasped, her voice small, terrified, and pleading. “...you’re _hurting_  me.”

At that moment, the tears pooling in her eyes slid down her cheeks and landed in drips on his fingers.  His hand snapped back as if her tears had burned him. Falling back to sit on his knees, he looked at his hands and could not stop them from shaking.  

The sounds of her pained wheezing as she struggled to catch her breath drew his eyes back to her face - tear stained and red. It broke _something_  in him that had not been broken before.  He withdrew his knee from between her legs and laid down beside her. Moving his arms to fully encircle her waist, the high-elf laid his cheek against her chest, stumbling over his words as those last precious vestiges crumbled, and he whispered frantic apologies and desperate pleas for forgiveness.

Freya sniffled and shivered, deep throbbing pains having been roused from their slumber. The sounds danced on the tip of her tongue but her words failed her. Instead she laid a light kiss on his head and stroked his cheek clumsily. She closed her eyes, her head spinning, every inch of her body feeling heavy and tired.

Eventually she felt Ondolemar rise, sitting her up long enough to settle behind her. Gathering her in his arms, he eased her back against his chest. Freya was on the petite side for a Nord - even with her head tucked neatly under his chin, the tips of her toes barely reached the halfway point of his calves.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered again in her ear after a long length of silence. Holding her a little tighter, his voice dropped - barely audible. "I love you."

But his only answer was her soft, slow breathing as she slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This one was difficult to write. It took three major re-writes before I was remotely satisfied with it - still holding my breath actually. :-P There will be one more chapter with these two before we jump forward in time to the era of the Last Dragonborn and the Skyrim story we all know and love.
> 
> That will be posted as a new work in the "Appointed Times" series. I like how AO3 gives us that formatting option. I post first and originally to deviantart, where my profile can be found here;
> 
> mikalero.deviantart.com
> 
> There are some further works a head there already posted, but some have maturity screens on them. If you don't feel like making a DA account to view, patience and this archive will be caught up in quick order.


	3. Anything that Begins, must also End...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Empire pushes back after their victory in retaking the Imperial City. Ondolemar and Freya both face difficult choices on what to do when Legion forces arrive at Skingrad's doorstep. None of them are easy, and all of them painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elder Scrolls and all  
> characters and content  
> found within are copyrighted  
> to Bethesda.
> 
> Warnings: Mature M/F Content - Ondolemar x Freya

_8th of Second Seed (May), 4E175_  
  


    The fire in the bedroom hearth crackled and hissed in the pre-dawn hours, the wood having been a bit more green than was ideal when it was cut.  Thankfully the still chilly spring winds were enough to draw it all up and out.  Freya sat on the wide sill to the window that looked out over the wide eastern bridge road to the Chapel District, running alongside the ever impressive Rosethorn Hall.  People’s homes and manors had nearly all been seized to serve as posts and quarters for the garrison and the Dominion officers.  The Guild Buildings further down the intersecting, narrow road were shuttered and devoid of life, any members that hadn't escaped before the city fell, or gone into hiding had been imprisoned or killed. She remembered the first time she sat here - it seemed ages ago. The streets were always filled and busy, not with the activity of its native populace, but the ominous and ever present marching of the garrison.  Now, the streets were all but abandoned. The vast majority of soldiers, commanders, and battlemages having marched over a week ago up the Gold Road to the Imperial City. They had not come back.

She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Arelya had been working intensely on her injuries.  Her shoulder still felt somewhat tender, but had otherwise recovered. There hadn't been any broken bones there. Still, Freya had not tolerated her bed confinement well - insisting on walking as quickly, as much, and as often as she could. Stiff braces wrapped firmly around her ankles beneath high boots provided enough stability that she was no longer quite so harshly squawked and fussed over by her Bosmer caretaker for something as simple as wanting to walk under her own power - under guard of course -  to offer her devotions at Julianos’ Chapel. Flexing her bare feet now, she winced slightly and frowned. Though the breaks had been mostly knit back together, they were still prone to a great deal of pain and weakness when she stood and moved unaided for anything but the quickest stretches of time.

She ran her hands up her arms, and softly rubbed at her Legion mark on her left shoulder - a black tattoo of the Imperial Dragon and the numeral of the Eighth beneath it.  Turning her eyes and craning her neck to see as much of the wall over Skingrad’s east-facing gate as possible, her gaze was fixed intently on the rapid scurrying of the paltry two-hundred or so Dominion soldiers left as they prepared the walls for siege.  The sight only confirmed what she had been suspecting for the last several days, though Ondolemar had told her nothing. He hadn't needed to. The Empire had retaken the Imperial City. It filled her with both elation and a dreadful confusion.  Only a fortnight before, she had assumed and accepted the inevitability of her permanent captivity.  Any contrary thoughts or audacious hope of ever seeing home again in the face of such circumstances had been shunned for a long time, if not entirely forgotten.

Turning her eyes from the window, she rested her head against the glass and watched silently as her elven lover slept.  Lover?  Or captor and enemy?  That line had become so blurred in her mind as she struggled to find some sort of happiness or comfort in this life of confinement, she truly could no longer distinguish between the two. What had begun as a pretense of submission in order to survive had changed somehow. When she looked at him, she no longer saw _them_. And now, with Divines only knew how many Legions on the road marching towards them, it pecked, stabbed, and tore at her heart to think that at any time, she might not ever see him again.

The sounds of her Justiciar beginning to rouse from his sleep drew her out of her reverie.  Slowly placing her feet on the ground, she tightened her jaw as she pushed herself to stand.  With a little hesitation, she took one step forward, then a second.  Despite shooting pain that made her wince, she managed to crawl back into the bed before he finished waking - being in no mood for a lecture. She could think of no way to avoid, or even delay the inevitable separation that pressed down on them.  

‘ _But_ _…'_ she thought to herself, _‘..._ _that time isn’t here_  yet.’

Ondolemar had not opened his eyes, rolling over onto his stomach, his hand fumbling blindly through the sheets for her.  Freya slid her legs back under the heavy linens and settled into bed with a sigh. His groping hand found and snaked around her waist, pulling her back against him forcefully enough to make her squeak.

“Well good morning then.” she said, chuckling quietly when a somewhat foul-tempered groan was his only response.  

“Well…” she said, with a humorous roll to her eyes, deliberately affecting the high-cultured accent and tone of an Altmer, finishing with a sniff.  “ _That_  seemed rather undignified.”

Her back to him, she could very nearly _feel,_  his green eyes snap open and narrow. Her soft smile burst into a grin as she anticipated the usual response. Ondolemar gripped her hips with both hands and yanked them back, bucking his own forward. Freya bit down softly on her lower lip and closed her eyes with a low, contented sigh. His growing arousal pressed against her thigh, hot and firm - he had not bothered to redress after the night before.

One hand moved to grasp at the fabric of her sleeping gown, hiking it up to her waist while the other tangled in her loose hair as his lips kissed and nibbled the back of her neck. “I’ve _told_  you about doing that before.” he growled, his voice edged with no small amount of lust.

“And? You seem to be under the impression that I dislike what happens after.” she purred, continuing her imitation. Ondolemar flipped her on her back and in an instant was on his hands and knees over her. Freya’s pale, icey blue eyes were locked with his - a brilliant, deep green  that made her quiver with implacable desire when they bored into her soul like they were now.   Neither of them were fools - they understood the probable finality of these next few hours they had together.

The Altmer ran his hands over her arms, twining his fingers with hers and pinning them above her head. He pressed his lips to hers, and she opened her mouth to him eagerly.  She squeezed his hands in her own tightly, letting a low, throaty moan escape as she felt his knees nudging her legs apart, her sex already becoming flushed and wet with anticipation.

Ondolemar broke his lips away from hers to attack her neck with warm, wet kisses, suckling gently all over any bit of skin he could reach to taste.  His hips settled in between her thighs, pressing and rubbing his hardened, ready flesh against her. Freya whimpered softly, closing her eyes and biting down softly on her lip to stifle her needy sounds. It was an ingrained habit - given the clandestine nature of their unions from the beginning.

He loosened one of his hands from hers, brushing fingertips over her lips.  “Don’t…” he whispered in her ear, his voice husky and deep. Freya’s eyes opened and she blinked, her brow ticking with slight confusion.

“There’s no need now. I want to hear, if just once…” He planted kisses along her jaw as he spoke, before claiming her mouth again. Bracing his weight on one arm, Ondolemar buried every bit of himself into her in a single, rapid thrust. Freya’s back arched and she gave a loud, sharp cry - a mixture of surprise at the suddenness of his movement, as well as the simple pleasurable intensity of the feeling it gave her.  Had she not already been well accustomed to his build - which was considerable even for a woman of his own race - it would have been painful.

One hand they kept locked together, her other snaked up his supporting arm, fingers digging in as if holding on for dear life as his thrusts settled into a rhythm.  Gasping, as if choked for air, she moaned and cried out, utterly at his mercy.  To move her hips, to be more aggressive in matching the unexpected ferocity of his attentions demanded more use of her legs and ankles than she could manage without pain. Every inch of her skin felt as if on fire, and a series of well angled thrusts struck her in just the right places to elicit a blissful shriek.

She could feel his arms beginning to tremble. Releasing his arm from the deathgrip her fingers had dug into his flesh, she cupped the side of his face - his expression almost pained and eyes screwed shut in concentration.

“O...Open...your eyes.” she said in a hoarse, barely coherent whisper. “ _Look_  at me.”

Ondolemar’s eyes finally opened, blinking once or twice to refocus.  Blue and green met, and did not move away from one another again.  It was a bit of a struggle as Freya began to feel that ever exquisite tight heat begin to coil in her middle.  His eyes were always her undoing, and staring into them now in the most intimate of embraces she could not contain herself any longer.  

‘ _Oh Gods… yes… Divines…_ _’_ Even her thoughts were becoming as incoherent as the sounds that she could not stop babbling. As her peak began to overtake her, her whole body shook uncontrollably, it barely registering in her conscious mind how she called out his name with raw and wanton desire.

He buried his face into her tangled mass of black hair, the weight of his body pressing and pinning her down into the bed. Reaching down and grabbing her hip, he bucked into her hard and deep as he came, spilling his seed inside.  Both of their heads were spinning, and for what seemed like a long while, only the sounds of their haggard breathing could be heard. Rolling onto his side, Ondolemar encircled her in his arms and pulled her with him, holding her tightly against his chest.  

“Freya…” he murmured.  

“Hmm?” she answered, tilting her head upwards to look at him through heavy-lidded, half closed eyes.  He opened his mouth to speak again, but the words caught in his throat.  Giving a frustrated sigh, he fell back into silence.  

Her voice was soft, and her tone warm and light.  It might have been amusing if the overwhelming sadness at the thought of their inevitable parting weren’t threatening her composure.

“I love you too, my Justiciar.”

\-------

_Mid-morning_

Freya’s fingers twisted the locks of her hair along her scalp as she  worked the heavy length into a distinctly Nordic style of braids. Chewing on her bottom lip in concentration, the tiniest bit of her tongue could be seen at the edges of her mouth as she craned her neck for a better view in her own room’s dressing mirror.  She had only just fitted the last plait with a wispy bit of leather to tie the end, when the sound of a distant, trumpeting horn caused her heart to leap from her chest.  The clear, clarion call sounded again, and again.  It was unmistakably Imperial.

“Ondolemar!  Arelya!” she called, grabbing her leather boots and limping over towards her bed.  She fell forward and caught herself against one of the posts when the entire manor house shook and thundered.  The catapult hits to the city walls, only a few dozen yards from Summermist, came in quick succession, and it wasn’t until they ceased for a moment that Freya attempted to move.  Her ankles and feet had already been braced and tightly bound, but pulling the boots over them as quickly as she could still made her grimace.  She called out again, and again received no response.  Gathering up the excess length in her skirts, she tucked as much as she could up under her bodice, hitching the rest in a knot at her hip.

Freya rushed to her door and pulled it open.  Quickly she turned back towards her nightstand, remembering the dram bottle of the potion Arelya had made for her pain.  Fumbling with the drawer handle, she pulled it open and was confronted by something unexpected.

There, beside her bottles which she gathered up quickly, was a somewhat irregularly shaped… _something_  wrapped in parchment.  After downing one bottle, and stuffing the others in her empty coin purse, she picked it up and began to unfold the paper.  

A necklace slipped from the paper, through her fingers, and clattered onto the floor.  Forgetting the parchment for a moment, which bore Ondolemar’s unmistakable hand scripted on the inside, she lowered herself to sit on the floor and reach for the pendant just under the table.

Her expression was quizzical and curious. It looked like a sun, or a many-pointed star. Crafted from moonstone, the center held a faceted crystal that threw off colored, fractured light.  The curved arms extending out from the center were each inlaid with smooth, pastel colored glass.  In her hand, it fit just inside her palm.

Putting it down in her lap, Freya picked up the parchment paper again and smoothed it out to read.

 

‘ _My most beautiful Freya,_

_I hope you will forgive my abrupt departure. My presence is demanded elsewhere as we hope to hold off the legions until our reinforcements from Kvatch arrive, and though you may think me a coward, I could not bring myself to say goodbye while looking into your eyes.  The necklace was my mother’s - a symbol called the Star of Old Alinor.  She wore it always before her death, and it was precious to her - as you are to me. Keep it safe for me, and I promise to do all within my power to return to you._

_-Ondolemar_ ’

 

“Damnit.  Damn you to Oblivion, you bastard.” she whispered shakily, a cold, heavy lump in her stomach making her feel very suddenly ill.

Freya clutched the note and the jeweled piece to her chest, choking back a cry. Hot, angry tears began to well in her eyes, and it was only the crushing, thundering boom of another catapult volley that served to bring her out of an alternatively furious and maudlin spiral.  The note was crumpled and pushed down into her purse, and her fingers quickly worked on the chain’s clasp so she could fix it around her own neck, tucking the pendant down into her dress.

She pulled herself to her feet with a groan - her pain masked by medicine. She made her way down the stairs, gripping the railing with white-knuckled tightness.  A cold determination had taken hold of her mind, and even the risk of forever crippling herself could not sway her from the course she now pursued.

\-----

_Early-afternoon_

Freya had been on her way to the Chapel, hiding herself among a mass of the city’s civilian populace fleeing to the safest place they could find. She had pilfered a light bow and arrows from the body of an elven soldier fallen from the wall, ducking against anything she could, down to one knee to pick the armored targets from the wall or in the street as the crowd moved.

Upon arriving, she found a number of men had rounded up a rag tag motely of weapons and were intent on trying to push the outnumbered Dominion forces onto the spears of Decianus’ Legion from the inside out.  Some were Legion veterans, a few were members of the Fighter’s Guild who had been in hiding.  But the vast majority were farm hands, stable boys, and shopkeepers - not soldiers, or strategists. Thankfully, the Count and what precious little was left of the city guard were of the same persuasion it seemed, as they were soon joined by freed prisoners and guardsmen coming out of a hidden tunnel from the Castle grounds that emptied into the Chapel Undercroft.

Adrenaline and narcotic brew kept the worst of her pain at bay, but the noise, and the stench of blood and smoke from the streets, would at random times make her head begin to spin and cause her belly to retch uncontrollably. Grasping the back of one of the pews, she dropped her head down and did her best to breathe through the spell while men argued, and the mass of fearful citizenry continued to panic. Heaving unproductively, she groaned and spit as she tasted the bitterness of bile in the back of her throat.  Running a hand over her face, she cursed when she saw the smeared ash on her palm - she had poured water over the ashes in the kitchen’s cooking fire before leaving Summermist Manor - dipping her fingers in the black mess, she’d painted the Nordic swirls of the mystic eye on her cheek and neck. Even without a mirror to see, it had made her feel complete in a way she had not in a very long time.

 _“_ Freya? _Freya?!_ "

She looked up from where she crouched, confused, the sound of a man’s voice calling her name urgently rising above the din of this terrified huddle of people. It sounded strange - familiar, though she couldn’t place it.  Soon enough though, her eyes found and fell upon his face and she was utterly dumbstruck.

“ _Cassius!_ ”she screamed, rushing towards her friend and fellow soldier of the Eighth Legion, Cassius Maro. Their embrace was joyful and relieved. His face was unshaven, his dark hair unkempt, and the scavenged leathers ill-fitted to his Imperial frame. Scars on his wrists and ankles indicated a confinement much more harsh and unyielding than hers had been.

“By the Nine!” he exclaimed, lifting her off her feet and laughing.  “You’re _alive_?! How?!”

“I’d ask you the same, but now’s not the time.” she exclaimed breathlessly, pulling away from him. “Dominion reinforcements are marching from Kvatch, if the Western Gate isn’t sealed, there’s still a chance they could repel the Legion.”

His expression was grave, though tainted by confusion. “How do you know this?” he asked.

Freya’s expression hardened and her eyes grew cold.  “No time to explain, just trust me. I need you to gather the armed men as best you can.”  Grasping her bow, she slung the quiver of assorted arrows over her shoulder. “I can help cover your advance.  Almost everyone is busy on the Eastern.  If we can get to the Western and cut the counterweights on the portcullis…”

“Then we can bar the city to any reinforcements.” he finished for her, nodding. “As my Praefect commands.” he said with a rakish grin and a fist to his chest in salute.

\-----

A fireball struck the ground a stone’s throw to her right.  The concussive force of it’s explosion sent Freya sprawling to the ground. Quickly getting to her hands and knees she grabbed her bow and scrambled to wedge herself between the stone of the city wall and a pile of barrels.  She could feel the swelling of her feet and legs beneath the leather of her boots.  They’d probably need to be cut off of her by the time this battle was done.  Forcing her legs under her body, she was able to get herself upright enough to take aim.

Cassius and the others were in the gatehouse door - fighting their way up.  Quickly, she took stock of her position - Three, no, four pursuers. The black robed mage who’d likely been the source of that fireball had his back to her.  Knocking her arrow, she drew and let it fly. Instead of striking the Justiciar, it went through the throat of an unfortunate armored infantry soldier who ran between them unaware.

Before she had time to curse her aim, she had drawn another.  About to let it go, the Thalmor mage had turned to face her, hands full of another charged and ready blast of fire.

Freya’s blood instantly ran cold, her aim becoming unsteady as her hands shook. Realization and recognition came to Ondolemar just as quickly as the fire died in his hands and the color drained from his face.  As he began to advance on her, she jerked her bow up and to the side before letting it loose.  It was unnecessary, but Ondolemar ducked to the side away from the shot.  It missed him by a wide margin, but plunged instead into the belly of the robed mage higher up on the hill behind him.

The look of frenzy on his face as he resumed his movement forward terrified her.  Dropping her bow, she turned to run, but her legs gave out from under her after less than three paces. Turning over in the grass on her back, she pushed herself up on her elbows, trying to keep moving back.  It was a futile effort as Ondolemar bent down to seize her by the arms.  With pure strength of force fueled by battle rage, he slammed and pinned her up against the wall, her eyes level with his and her feet dangling a full foot off the ground.  Her ears were ringing, and her vision doubled and blurred.

 _“_ What in the name of Oblivion are you _DOING here, you FOOL_?” he bellowed, already knowing the answer to the question and drowning out the hurt in his voice with anger.

Tears streamed freely down her face, but matched him with no less fury as she thrashed against his grip.  “What did you _THINK_  I was going to do? Cower in the cellar until this was over? How did you truly believe this was going to end Ondolemar?! _ANY OF IT_?!”

His jaw set in a hard line, but he could not answer her. What future did she really have with him, if the Dominion won this war? Or worse, if they were fought to a standstill? A kept pet, or a polished puppet at best, with a most bleak and dire outlook for _both_  of them if anything at all about them was suspected or discovered.

There were too many hidden wounds in her mind and heart that were being ripped open and uncovered in that moment for her to acknowledge, let alone process, the expression of… betrayal… she saw in his eyes.  It did nothing to soften her, and only served to fuel her outpouring of rage.

“I am a _Nord_ , a daughter of Skyrim, of the _Empire_!  This is _MY HOME!”_ she shrieked at him. “You are truly _deluded_  if you _EVER_  thought you could make me forget that!”

Without warning he dropped her, stepping back, opening and closing his fists, tense and taut as a caged beast.  Her pained scream as she hit the ground was lost in another volley of fireballs nearby.  The Imperial battering rams had nearly gotten down the Eastern Gate.  

Lifting her head off the ground, Freya was able to push herself up enough to look at him.  “You have to get out of here.” she gasped out, her body choked with sobs of bodily pain, sorrow, and panic.  “They’re going to cut the weights… Go.  I can’t… I can’t save… I can’t protect you if you’re still here.”

The edges of her vision began to darken, and the entire world was spinning again.  She could see… Black… Gold trim…Was he kneeling beside her?  With every last ounce of will she had she pushed him away.  

“ _GO!_ ”

Time itself felt slowed, sounds became distorted and muffled. Flashes of bright colors and changing, shifting shapes crowded out any sense in her vision before it all faded to a black void.  

The next moment Freya became aware of anything, it was the sound of Cassius’ voice in her ear. Were there others? Someone was lifting her up - two of them.  Her arms were draped over a pair of shoulders on either side of her.

“Cassius?” she muttered, unsure if she could be heard or understood.  

“Shh, it’s alright Frey.” he said, chuckling when the unnecessary abbreviation of her name earned him a sideways glare of annoyance.  “We won. Drove them out. They’re gone."  
  
Squeezing her hand, he turned his head to peck a quick kiss to her hair.  "We get to go home.”

“Home.” she murmured, closing her eyes and beginning to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a rough one to write for a number of reasons. I haven't written sex in forever, plus I have a personal weakness when dealing with stories and couples that DON'T live happily ever after. It's rough to read and rough to write. And yet I'm a huge Game of Thrones fan. Go figure.
> 
> Anywho, for those of you wondering, Cassius is indeed the Commander Maro of the Penitus Oculatus who serves as an antagonist in the Dark Brotherhood Questline. He and Freya both served in the 8th Legion that was left to fight a suicidal rearguard while the Emperor escaped the Imperial City. Only a handful, less than a dozen, out of a Legion of 5,000 survive the battle and the war. 
> 
> I didn't really have an opportunity to explain Freya's origins and career with the Legion without adding excessive amounts of exposition, and I don't know that I would get a chance to do it later on when the story shifts to her twins, the daughter, Runa, being the Dragonborn. The boy-twin, Rundil, is going to serve as the 'experience-er' of the player's perspective at the Winterhold Mage's College.
> 
> Freya's father was a Harbinger of the Companions, Kodlak Whitemane's predecessor - his name was Bjorn Silver-Hawk. She joined the Legion when she was about 19, the same time the first waves of Nords came down from Skyrim, this group included Balgruuf the Greater, the future Legate Rikke, and Ulfric Stormcloak. They were assigned to the 4th Legion - largely Nord in makeup, but Freya, having the famous Silver-Hawk family name, was placed with the 8th - the Legion usually permanently stationed to the Capitol City, where many Penitus Oculatus, or eventual Generals and High/Commanding Legates were recruited from. That makes her 23 when she was captured, and 24 by the time the Empire retakes the Capitol City.
> 
> (Side note, though still active in their actions against the Thalmor and to protect the overall welfare of the Empire, the Blades ceased being the Emperor's Bodyguards after the death of Martin Septim. They operated very much outside the authority of the Empire and the Mede Emperors.)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the start of something wonderful! This is my first attempt at writing down my head-canon ideas for anything in a long time. I do hope you enjoy. The Dragonborn era of the story will be the bulk of the chapters, drabbles, vignette's, etc that I write, but previous generations may well make an appearance at some point as well.
> 
> So we start with a peak into the life of Freya Silver-Hawk (one of my OCs), destined to be mother of the Last Dragonborn, during the waning days and hours of the Great War with the Aldmeri Dominion.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please by all means leave comment love! I love comment love!


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